


I Couldn't Seem to Die

by Notspiderman



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Action, Angst, Apocalypse, F/M, Families of Choice, Family, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Zombies, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-05-13 19:38:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19257829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notspiderman/pseuds/Notspiderman
Summary: There's a loud burst of static that sounds almost accidental accompanied by more screams.Someone pounds on the door and it rattles on its flimsy airplane hinges, then his stomach drops in a completely different way.He looks up in slow motion and sees the sky racing by much too fast.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I was just cruising through some of my old unpublished stuff and I found this from way back in 2015. It's old enough that I might not have done anything with it, but apparently I wrote around 25,000 words of this monstrosity. I went through, cleaned it up, and here we are
> 
> Title is from Hurricane from the Hamilton soundtrack

**4:00 AM March 3rd Western European Time Dublin, Ireland**

_New text from Memereine_

He swipes his thumb over the screen of his phone, pausing The Road To El Dorado. He has to admit that the original English is better than the French dub, though it makes the Frenchman in him recoil.

_Memereine: you board your flight alright_

He squints at the distant security point. Lafayette's been standing in this line for years. He left his hotel at two and he's not even on the plane yet. It's a good thing he heeded the news and gave himself extra time to catch his flight, or he'd be stranded in Ireland. 

It could be worse. He could be stranded in Britain. The only good things from Britain are Doctor Who, America, and Benedict Cumberbatch. Damn, that man has cheekbones.

_Laughsalot: Not yet_

He pauses to toss his extremely thin Frappuccino as the line finally picks up. Washington can make better, and Washington makes terrible coffee.

_Laughsalot: The line just started moving_

_Memereine: Traffics backed up here_

_Memereine: Can't get to the office_

_Memereine: Or the cafe place_

_Memereine: Shit early morning and I can't even get caffeine_

_Memereine: Save me Gilly_

Lafayette grins, he'll miss Adrienne. He's known the woman most of his life and he's eternally grateful how supportive she is, especially in the early years when they were both scared orphans and a kind American couple wanted to adopt him. He doesn't know if he'd have ever opened up to the Washingtons without her. 

_Laughsalot: I can't, you ditched me in Ireland_

_Laughsalot: You traitor_

_Memereine: You're the one that said it'd be more convenient to catch a flight back there than drive back to France_

Lafayette checks his boarding pass and identification with the dead-eyed security guard and slips out of his shoes. He loads everything into a dull gray tray and steps through the metal detector.

_One new text from Memereine 5m ago_

_Memereine: You seen any crazies_

_Laughsalot: There haven't been any cases this far north_

_Laughsalot: Don't call them that_

_Memereine: Yur no fun_

_Laughsalot: I'm more fun than you'll ever be_

_Memereine: Anyway you're at an airport_

_Memereine: everyone goes through there_

_Memereine: They obvs think somethings up with their security_

He grabs a croissant that tastes like paper and is a shame to all of France on his way to his boarding terminal.

**4:40 AM**

Lafayette hears some sort of ruckus in the waiting area, but he's already halfway down the jetway so he ignores it.

The stairs to the second floor almost make him wish he had gotten an economy class ticket instead of first class. He stretches out his long legs and feels them pop.

Almost.

**4:50 AM**

The man they sit down beside him looks slightly surprised to be in first class, but mostly rather detached.

He tugs the sleeves of his large sweatshirt down over his hands and pulls his beanie over his ears.

He gives Lafayette a nonchalant half wave, "Hercules Mulligan." 

He's pleasantly surprised to hear the man's American accent.

"And I am Lafayette, are you returning home?"

Hercules chuckles, "something like that."

Lafayette raises his eyebrows, but doesn't push. He doesn't make a point to ask strangers about their business unless they hire him. He is a gentleman.

A flight attendant comes by to make sure their belts are secure and electronic devices are away. He shoots a quick text to Adrienne.

_Laughsalot: Gtg taking off_

_Memereine: have a good flight_

He closes his phone and waits till he can order some real breakfast.

They've got fruit loops on the child's breakfast menu and he promptly orders a bowl. He’s been longing for something disgustingly sweet since he left America.

Hercules smirks behind his hand and Lafayette offers him the remainder of the small, travel sized box. 

The other man stares for a moment, smile slipping, then takes it and pulls out a handful.

He coughs. ”God, yeah, still tastes like unicorn shit."

Laf chuckles, leaning forward. "If the unicorn was only eating sugar cane."

Hercules grins. ”It's like some poor bastard got fruit described to them and the only words they used were sweet and colorful."

Lafayette laughs as a steward sets down a glass of, presumably, alcohol in front of the larger man.

He seems to consider something for a moment, then shoots Laf a look and dumps the rest of the fruit loops in, pulling the spoon from the frenchman's half empty bowl and sticking it in with a flourish.

Lafayette gasps. “Merde.” He doesn't know if this is more of an effrontery to the wine or the cereal.

Hercules raises his eyebrows. ”Hey, I ride first class I'm gonna do it right. You got a problem with that laffytaffy?"

He knows a challenge when he sees one.

"Not at all mon ami.” He carefully takes a spoonful. This is what his masters is for. This is what his doctorate will be for. 

He keeps his face as straight as possible. Merde, that is going to be terribly in a couple of minutes.

Hercules looks rather impressed.

An elderly gentleman on the other side of the aisle gives them a disapproving look. Hercules grabs the glass and downs it, meeting the other man's eyes all the while.

Lafayette laughs and a moment later the larger man turns back.

"Damn rich people."

The Frenchman raises his eyebrows, smiling and a little bit hopeful. Hercules seems like he would be a terribly fun friend.

"Present company excluded?"

Hercules grins at him, rummaging in his backpack and pulling out a bottle of water.

"Just as long as you don't make me drink any more fruit loops and wine."

**9:00 AM**

Lafayette stares out the window, his cheek propped on his hand.

He's always loved the water. Especially the ocean. He swam for his High School swim team and even went to state his senior year. It's doubly impressive considering he didn't even come to the US until just before freshman year.

He hears a faint curse behind him and turns. He'd thought Hercules was sleeping. They’d stopped talking when the gaps between sentences got too long and they both started to lull. Also, because they kept getting shushed, but they're too proud to admit that.

The other man is awkwardly trying to dig through his backpack over his...leg.

It's not his speciality, but from what he knows from Martha it's a below the knee prosthesis. He can faintly see what looks like the original American flag decorating the socket from where it's hidden under Hercules's elbows.

His residual limb stops just under his knee and the joint itself is stripped with swaths of scar skin, the jagged line of his amputation sutures hard to find from within them. The thigh is significantly smaller than Hercules's other, muscular one, and Lafayette can just see the edge of where his fibula and tibia were cut if he shifts just right. 

"I was a soldier."

"Quelle?"

"I'm gonna pretend I know what that means.” He goes back to digging through his back pack, shifting several white, tube-ish things on his thigh, "it's a lot of people's first question.” He makes a slightly high pitched voice. "How did you lose your leg? It's fairly predictable."

"Ah...I knew someone who lost a hand to machinery once." Lafayette stills as he remembers the young girl in the workhouse. She had never gotten a prosthetic and everyone, including him, had been terrified the next injury would be theirs’.

Hercules looks at him for a moment, then easily lifts his backpack and hands it to the Frenchman.

"I'm looking for a little tub of moisturizer about this big." He holds up his fingers to indicate something about the size of a sliver dollar. 

Laf nods and sorts through the bag, finding the little tub after a moment among several other care supplies that look like they'd been thrown in.

"Thanks man, I slept through my alarm this morning and didn't get around to moisturizing my stump properly."

"De rien, it is no problem. My friend Adrienne set five alarms on my phone and still I slept through three of them. I am, how you say, the early bird, but I think two is still a bit too early, non?"

Hercules chuckles, uncapping the tub. "You can say that again. I'm not an early bird. If there's something good about being discharged, it's getting to sleep in."

Lafayette laughs. "I would not know, but my father is very, how you say, stubborn about getting his beauty rest."

"Your father served?"

"Yes, for many years. My mother as well, though she is normally the one waking him up."

Hercules smiles and Lafayette finds that it is a much more fitting expression than the detached one he had worn when he first sat down.

"Do your parents live in France?"

"Non, they are American. My father is very American, he would like your star spangled banner,” He gestures to the design on the other man's prosthesis," but I am, very kindly, adopted."

Hercules nods. "Tell your dad thanks. I've got a couple of half siblings, but none of us are adopted."

The intercom crackles and a staticky voice interrupts their conversation.

//Is there a doctor on board?//

Hercules and Lafayette exchange a glance.

The message is repeated several more times, then two flight attendants walk past them and escort a frowning man to economy.

"What do you think is happening."

Hercules shrugs, screwing on the lid of the little container and tucking it back into his bag. "Someone can't hold up to traveling, got sick to their stomach."

Lafayette nods, bending over to get a closer look at his prosthetic. "Why did you choose the Stars and Stripes instead of the modern American flag?"

Hercules seems pleasantly surprised and the conversation continues for several hours this time.

**11:33 AM or 6:33 AM Eastern Time**

//Attention, this is your captain speaking//

Lafayette startles awake as Hercules gently shakes his shoulder.

He'd fallen asleep and slumped over on the larger man's arm shortly after aforementioned man had exclaimed that they could order steak.

He's gathered Hercules has never flown first class before.

//Attention, this is your captain speaking//

He sits up and rubs the lines in his face from the creases in the other man's sweatshirt.

//Stay calm and remain in your seats//

He exchanges a glance with Hercules.

//It seems one of the passengers on board was a victim of encephalopathy. Don't panic, the problem has been contained, but if you came into any contact with persons acting strangely at the airport or on the plane we ask that you report it immediately//

Their pilot goes on to repeat the message in several other languages.

Hercules looks tense, Lafayette knows he is. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest.

**11:43 AM or 6:43 AM Eastern Time**

"Bullshit."

Lafayette pulls back his supposed two queens and Hercules smirks. The man's a card shark. It’s a good thing he didn't put any money on this.

The other man had pulled out the deck several minutes after the announcement, slapping it on his thigh.

"Come on Laf, relax, you look like you just went to smash a spider and it wasn't there anymore."

"I would not smash a spider, they kill mosquitos."

They'd played a round of crazy eights before deciding it was too subdued and switching to bullshit. 

Herc is winning by a landslide.

There's a muffled scream from below and they freeze.

There's another scream and a crash. 

A door slams and a stewardess runs up the steps to cower at the front of the room. There's a spatter of blood across her blouse and vest that smears as she shakes, clutching her arms over her head.

Lafayette apologizes as he pushes himself over Hercules, sprinting towards the woman. He recognizes panic when he sees it.

Another passenger stands up, blocking his way. His brow is low over his eyebrows and his fists are clenched, but his skin is pale and sweaty. "Hey! What's going on!?"

Hercules puts a hand on the man's shoulder and Laf ducks around them, slowing down as he approaches the woman.

He spreads his hands wide, crouching so that the stewardess can see him.

Her eyes are bright with panic and unshed tears.

There's another thump from below and she flinches.

//All staff report to the cockpit. I repeat, all staff report to the cockpit//

"Hey, hey. It is alright." He speaks softly, slowly crouching beside the woman, far enough away that she's comfortable, but close enough that she focuses on him.

"Hey, I want you to listen to my voice, can you do that?"

The woman nods frantically, her breath coming in short, shallow bursts. 

"Alright, very good, now I want you to breath how I do, can you do that?" He's done this more times than he can count, but it never fails to break his heart.

She nods and Lafayette slowly breaths in, holding his breath for several seconds, then slowly breathing out.

It takes a moment but gradually her breathing evens and tears start to roll down her cheeks.

She tries to wipe at them, fumbling as she continues to shake.

“I’m—I’m sorry."

He smiles. "It is perfectly all right, you have nothing to apologize for. What is your name?"

“Mar—Marin.”

"Ah, that is a very lovely name, Marin."

She smiles wetly and the trembling begins to slow.

//All staff to the cockpit!! I repea—//

There's a clattering like an old fashioned phone being hung up and he locks eyes with Marin

His own breath begins to pick up the longer the silence goes and he finally takes note of the blood splattered across her shoulder and smeared along her arm and the edge of her jaw bone.

His heart pounds in his chest and adrenaline starts to pump through his system, his throat tightening and muscles tensing as a pit opens in his stomach.

There's a loud burst of static that sounds almost accidental accompanied by more screams.

Someone pounds on the door and it rattles on its flimsy airplane hinges, then his stomach drops in a completely different way.

He looks up in slow motion and sees the sky racing by much too fast.

The floor and walls begin to shake and there's a crash as something glass falls and shatters.

Someone shrieks and now the plane is shaking too much for Lafayette to look out the window. 

He just sits there and stares, his hands resting on his knees. He's frozen and his chest is tight. His ears pop and he can't draw any breath.

A large hand grabs his shoulder and he snaps back to the present.

Hercules is holding onto a seat to balance himself. He grits his teeth and hauls Lafayette to his feet, steadying him as he stumbles. 

The Frenchman pulls on Marin's arm, but she won't budge.

The floor starts to tilt and they begin to slide as he frantically tugs on her shoulders.

Hercules pulls him away and shoves him into a seat, tripping as he sits down beside them.

Lafayette shoves at his chest, undoing his seatbelt to try and reach Marin, but the plane lurches and jumps through the air. The only thing that keeps him from pitching forward is Hercules's strong arm.

He shoves Lafayette back into the seat as the plane lurches again. His stomach feels like it's in his throat and the air feels weird. It's like gravity isn't acting how it should.

Between the shaking plane and his shaking hands he doesn't know how he does it, but Hercules leans over and manages to get his seat buckled.

He pulls it tight as the plane jumps and a terrible screech rips through the air.

He barely catches a glimpse of Marin, bloody and broken, pushed by the momentum into the far wall, as he tucks his head between his knees and squeezes his eyes shut.

They hit the water and all he sees is black.

**12:00 AM or 7:00 AM Eastern Time**

Everything is cold.

Lafayette's head pounds, a mallet rhythmically slamming into the inside of his skull. There's an acrid smell in the air, like burning gasoline or rubber.

He coughs and nearly inhales a mouthful of fuel filled ocean water.

His eyes fly open and he immediately regrets it.

The world is ringing and nothing makes sense.

He's been thrown from the plane along with his seat and a curved piece of the hull. It's barely afloat and for a terrifying moment through the window all he sees is dark black water.

Hercules.

Lafayette spins.

A large portion of the plane is still intact, rubble and bodies are scattered around it like some sort of twisted snow angel.

The intact piece looks like a soda can that someone tore the side out of. It’s tilted into the water and slowly sinking.

Seats and people are still slumped inside.

He lunges forward and jerks to a halt as his leg catches. He frantically frees it and quickly begins swimming towards the plane.

They must have been close to landing. It's the only explanation for why he's–they're, alive. This must be New York bay then. He can see the beach and, farther, the bridges. There's smoke rising from the city.

Lafayette feels like he should probably be injured, but he brushes it off.

As he gets closer to the body of the plane the fuel starts to get thicker and he can see the water burning.

It's hot and almost choked with smoke when he scrambles onto the metal. It tears the palms of his hands and he lands heavily on one knee when he finally reaches the top. 

Water pours from him and he coughs. His clothes tug like hooks trying to pull him down.

One of his feet slides and he crashes backwards, sliding to a stop with a soft thump.

There's a snarl from behind him and he pushes himself back. Flipping over and trying to pull himself away from whatever it is with his soaked shoes and bloody palms. The plane is tilted too steeply and sinking too rapidly and all he does is slide. 

He kicks blindly.

There's a corpse behind him. It used to be an older woman, but now she's barely identifiable as human. Her body is rent in too many ways to count and blood gushes down the floor and into the water along with a long string of entrails.

One of her twisted arms snaps to the side and hooks into his pant leg with a gushing, popping noise.

Lafayette throws an arm above him and it skitters across the floor before finding purchase on the side of a chair.

He tugs his leg away, coughing as the smoke grows thicker.

The smell is cloying and all he can taste is iron and salt.

Where is Hercules.

He pulls himself up, leaving wet, bloody handprints in his wake as he looks in the upper seats.

The other man's backpack is wedged underneath a seat and he tugs at it. 

He slings it over his back, ignoring the extra weight. There's a corpse beside it and he turns it over, heart in his mouth.

Not Hercules.

If anything his heart pounds harder.

He trips and slides to the next corpse. 

Not Hercules.

The next one's too small, then there's a woman, and this person doesn't have Hercules's dark skin, and none of them, none of them are Hercules.

He skids to his knees beside one that has a massive, jagged piece of metal through its chest. It's arms reach for him and it makes a choking, coughing sound in the back of its throat. Blood bubbles from its mouth and as it reaches for him it jerks itself up the shrapnel. There's a wet snap and suddenly several ribs are poking through its ripped skin. A thick line of hot blood splatters over his cheek and the bridge of his nose and Lafayette flinches.

Whatever had been keeping the plane afloat fills and it lurches, pitching him back as it begins to sink faster.

He attempts to push himself up, stumbling to his feet and immediately pitching and sliding down the floor.

He lurches and finds his grip, falling to his knees.

He looks from side to side, seats, flame, smoke, corpses, and blood and blood and ocean and blue sky and—there.

There's a dark green hoody and a grayish beanie that's red with blood in one corner and he skids, mostly falling.

He almost pitches into the water but just stops himself, leaving long smears of crimson behind him.

Hercules is pinned awkwardly between the seat and a drink cart, it's probably what kept him alive, if he's alive.

His good leg and, thankfully, his prosthetic leg are under the water and as Lafayette struggles to pull the drink cart away, the water rises to lap at the other man's chest.

He plants his foot and something in his body screams at him, but is just as quickly blocked out by adrenaline. The muscles in his arms burn and he clenches his teeth, wrenching his shoulders and pulling the cart away.

It comes free and crashes off of a chunk of metal, then splashes into the water, sinking quickly.

The water is lapping at Hercules's chin and he desperately tries to get the seat belt undone.

His fingers won't listen to him, they're stiff and slick with blood and ocean water. His hands shake minutely and they won't listen to him.

He's treading water himself now and Hercules is almost completely submerged.

He grits his teeth and gulps in a breath, ducking below the surface and opening his eyes.

They burn, but he can see the latch. 

The metal slips between his fingers and he just grips it, pulling it loose with a muted click and surging from the water to catch Hercules before he can tumble headlong into the ocean.

Lafayette tries to drag them away from the plane, heart hammering. As it sinks he can feel the pull on his body, trying to suck them down with it.

The water laps over his jaw, dripping into his nostrils. Hercules and his backpack and their wet clothes tug him down along with the drag from the plane. 

He winds his fingers tight in Hercules's wet sweatshirt and takes a breath, throwing out an arm. It only skims through water and Lafayette’s stomach drops.

He's not going to die.

He throws out his arm again and this time it clangs into a piece of shrapnel. 

He kicks as hard as he can and pushes Hercules up. The other man almost rolls back onto him, but Lafayette puts his shoulder into it and he slumps onto the shrapnel.

His arms burn and cramp as he pulls the backpack off and slings it beside the other man. His muscles won't listen to him, they won't bend or contract how he needs them to and he needs to be strong now, but he can't.

He kicks, but can't push himself onto the shrapnel. The water laps at his throat and he throws his arms out onto the rubble, resting in the water as it rises and falls.

He’s dizzy and his arms ache. He lets his legs float in the ocean and looks out at the coast.

There's fire and smoke and distant screaming. There will be no help from land.

He begins to flutter his legs. They drag through the water like it’s molasses, but the shore is close. He can make it. He will make it.

A swell of water buoys them and his head goes under the water. He keeps kicking.

He's not going to die here.

He was on the streets after his parents died. Sensations flash through his memory. Running away and his bare feet padding on the cement. The hot asphalt burning and raising blisters on their soles.

Retrospectively, it had been foolish to run, but he still had. 

He's always held out hope for a better future and he'll still do that now. He will help create that better future.

They dip down the side of a swell and Lafayette uses the momentum to push them up the next one.

They're not going to die here. This is not the end.

It feels like years later when his toes scrape through sand and he pushes the piece of the plane onto the beach. He can barely feel his body as he wedges it into the ground so it won't drift away.

Lafayette staggers onto the beach, tripping in the surf. He sways and falls to his knees, realizing for the first time that there's a piece of shrapnel sticking out of his calf. When did that happen?

He extends an arm into the ground, sand getting into his torn palm and fingers as he attempts to push himself back up.

His body won't listen to him. He can feel his wet hair draped over his neck and hanging into his eyes as he sways. His hair tie must have broken.

He blinks and attempts to draw a steadying breath. It halts in his chest and hitches on the way out.

He blinks and hears the careening of a car somewhere in the distance. Smoke drifts past him and his arm buckles.

He topples the rest of the way into the sand and tries to bend his arms to push himself up. They won't listen to him.

Lafayette sees black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's some more garbage. Holy shit my grammar was bad

**6:00 AM March 3rd Eastern Time New York NY, United States of America or An Hour Earlier in New York**

Alexander is gonna fucking own this conference.

Yeah, he had one of the winning essays, but what's gonna matter is what he does when he actually gets to the capitol.

Only one of the other winners is from the same school as him. James Madison. Despite the man's large frame he seems diminutive, probably because he's constantly hunched over trying not to cough up a lung. He's brilliant though, Alex can admit. Quiet but forceful. He gets the job done and so far they've agreed on more things than they've disagreed.

The other man sits across and several seats down from Alexander on the bullet train. They'd finally finished installing it several months ago. It's supposed to take them between New York and DC in an hour. If it proves itself he's looking forward to the amount of time he can save, not to mention being able to freely go to the Capitol.

He hits the return key on his laptop. 

There will be a tour and a panel to ask questions, then a simulation of government on the highest level. 

Alexander already knows how the government works, but the chance to debate with some of the brightest minds on the east coast isn't something he’s going to pass up, not to mention the prestige of the program. If he does well, which he will, when he graduates in a year and applies for an internship he'll already know the layout and some familiar faces.

He's documenting the entire process on his blog, even the parts he probably shouldn't be documenting.

The only way anyone can make the right decision is if they have all the facts, and even then sometimes they don't.

Speaking of still being an idiot. He curls his lip as he minimizes the word document he'd been working on and scans over the most recent post on his blog. 

It's about the nation wide approval of gay marriage and the new bill that just passed the day before to protect those rights.

The commenter has posted a long rail about how the original law and new bill violate states rights and Alexander would say it’s well worded, except the guy is so horribly off base that it just pisses him off.

He doesn't recognize the username, it seems that someone has hacked his account to rename him betterthanu69, but it's definitely Thomas Jefferson.

The man is a constant fixture on his blog. He always finds something to complain about. Not that Alex is much better.

Jefferson himself runs several blogs, none of them as fleshed out or popular as Alexander's. At least not in any way that he thinks counts. He's got an ungodly amount of followers on social media, though.

Alexander makes time to read and pick apart every single one of the posts on his blog about politics and government, and even tunes in to poke at some of his others.

He knows jack shit about engineering or architecture, or the newest tech that's in development, but he learns and picks out spots of disagreement anyway. 

Thomas Jefferson was actually another winner of the contest. He's from some wealthy, private southern school and that's another reason Alexander is so pumped for this trip. He can't wait to tear down the man in person for the first time.

The last winner is Angelica Schuyler. He's never met the woman, but he's read her publications on women's rights and particularly liked the one on reform in the criminal justice system.

Someone replies to Thomas's comment before he can and Alexander grins fiercely, adding on to their argument.

He loves the debate that goes on in the comments almost more than the actual blog. Half the time he doesn't even have to manage them, but he still does. He answers questions and takes suggestions on topics to cover. Looking into things that people remark on and refuting contradictory posts.

He clicks back to his word document and adds a note. This is going to be great.

**6:10 AM**

This man's eyes are going to be the death of him. He doesn't like tearing pages out of his sketch pad and he couldn't with this one anyways, it's already filled with little colored pencil sketches of tropical fish and notes from a lecture on coral reefs.

Either he gets this man's eyes right or he tapes a sticky note over the top of it so he doesn't have to look at his failure.

He taps his foot to the swell of the music through his earbuds. Peggy had turned him onto it a couple weeks ago. It's some kind of Viking metal. It's a bit weird, but there's nothing like it to get pumped up before a game. He'll need to be pumped up if they want to win against Philadelphia.

John taps his pencil to his lips, squinting at the man across from him. 

The man's rather chaotically put together, hunched over and typing furiously on his laptop. His tie hangs untied from around his neck despite his nice slacks and button up shirt. He's wearing scuffed tennis shoes and John thinks he looks a bit more like someone that's trying to look the part of a put together professional.

His hair is tied back loosely at the nape of his neck and several long strands flop over his defined face. His expression shifts as he works and there's stubble over his chin like he's trying to grow a goatee and isn't quiet there yet, but what really captures John is his eyes.

There're hooded with heavy bags underneath them like smudges of soot or ink, but they spark with a fire that's captivating. They're almost overwhelming in their intelligence.

He puts pencil to paper and this time they come out right. 

Now there's a little, fiery, passionate man working at his laptop in the bottom corner of John's sketchbook under a blue tang and beside a note that says that corals can die from stress.

John smiles.

**6:25 AM**

His phone buzzes and he lifts it from where it had been resting and playing his music.

New text from Coach and 13 more

_Maybe Chris??: is the game still on?_

John frowns. Why wouldn't the game be on?

_Coach: yes, the schedule hasn't changed. You'll be notified if there are changes._

He swipes through the group chat for his team until his phone pings again.

_New text from Cookiemonsta_

_Cookiemonsta: John check news_

He raises his eyebrows but listens to Peggy and checks his feed. He doesn't see anything until he checks the trending tab on YouTube. The #1 trending video is fifteen minutes long, has a terribly blurred thumbnail, and is titled ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE??!!?. He dismisses it as clickbait and scrolls down.

The next video is something by an hourly news channel. A woman wearing a chalky amount of makeup who looks like she'd rather be anywhere else is speaking. She calmly, or resignedly, lists off statistics about the spread of encephalopathy across Europe and about several cases discovered that morning around the United States. She reminds everyone to stay away from airports and to have a nice day. That's ironic.

John snorts and goes back to the trending page. There's a live stream from Atlanta Georgia that's just popped up.

It's a small channel and he doesn't understand why it has so many watching until he clicks on it. The camera is shaky and the lag is considerable. The sound comes through in the offhanded burst and every time it sounds like a mess of crunching static.

He squints at the screen. There are buildings and what looks like a mass of people, the image freezes and John flinches back as it suddenly grows smoother.

There are people screaming and running, the sound of car horns echoes throughout the background and over everything is the crunch of clothing as whoever is holding the camera sprints. He's never seen such chaos before.

The image whips around to focus on something else, freezing before showing a man trip to the ground. John’s stomach drops for a reason he can't place. 

A woman with a large, gaping absence of flesh on her neck and an arm that hangs as if only attached by strings lunges for the man. He screams and the woman buries her teeth in his calf. Blood splatters across her face and John flinches. His scars ache and his head pounds with white noise. What the hell is going on?

He's still, staring at nothing, then he scrabbles to pull down his lacrosse bag from the overhead compartment. He'll protect himself. He’ll stay safe. He'll fight this time. 

John rummages for his stick and pulls it out as his fingers brush cool metal. He doesn't know what's going on but he's going to be able to defend himself.

_Feckinfightme: WTF!!??_

_Cookiemonsta: i told u_

_Feckinfightme: What_

_Cookiemonsta: i goddamn told u_

_Cookiemonsta: i said_

_Cookiemonsta: john_

_Cookiemonsta: 1 day the zombie apocalypse will happen_

_Cookiemonsta: and u said_

_Feckinfightme: Shut up Peggy you're high_

_Feckinfightme: I didn't think it would actually happen_

_Cookiemonsta: so u admit i was right_

_Feckinfightme: Peggs stfu this is not the time_

_Cookiemonsta: it is always the time for me 2 be right_

_Feckinfightme: Peggs_

_Cookiemonsta: yeah yeah_

_Cookiemonsta: john youve got yur armor with u right_

_Feckinfightme: Yeah why_

_Cookiemonsta: u should probably put it on_

John pauses for a moment. He's relied on his gut since his father disowned him and it's never led him astray. It's desperately screaming at him to listen to Peggy right now.

He picks up his lacrosse bag and his backpack and makes his way down the car to the bathrooms.

_Feckinfightme: Yea_

_Feckinfightme: Where are you_

_Cookiemonsta: street_

_Cookiemonsta: by a convenience store by the bridge_

_Feckinfightme: Peggy_

_Feckinfightme: Which bridge which convenience store_

_Cookiemonsta: Google maps says Verrazano-Narrows bridge_

_Feckinfightme: I keep forgetting you just moved down here_

_Cookiemonsta: I'm by the lower bay_

_Feckinfightme: Yeah I know where you are_

_Feckinfightme: Meet up at Harriman state park, stay away from crowded places, stay safe_

_Feckinfightme: Don't do anything dumb_

_Cookiemonsta: u know all u know about zombie cause of me john_

_Feckinfightme: True_

_Cookiemonsta: *zombies_

He finishes pulling on his lacrosse armor and slings his backpack over his shoulders, threading his stick through the straps for easy access. He haltingly touches his fingers to the rubber cap on the base, it'll be easy to reach. He'll be ready. If he dies it will be with a fight.

It wouldn't be so bad though. Dying. If he did it right, helped someone, made a difference, maybe he...John cuts himself off, he's not going to think about this.

_Cookiemonsta: oh my god_

He props the door open with his foot and reaches for his lacrosse bag, it still has the rest of his gear and about a gallon worth of water. It will be good for someone, even if it's not him.

_Feckinfightme: What_

He grabs the bag and straightens, shifting his pack.

_Feckinfightme: Peggy what is it_

_Feckinfightme: Peggy?_

_Feckinfightme: Peggs??_

_Cookiemonsta: a plane just crsahed in bay_

_Cookiemonsta: gon go see if i cn help_

_Cookiemonsta: look fr gelica_

_Cookiemonsta: she ws supposed to be n ur train tday_

_Feckinfightme: Peggy stop_

_Feckinfightme: Peggs_

_Feckinfightme: Peggy!!_

John jerks his head up as someone farther down the train screams. His heart leaps into his throat and adrenaline, unbidden, shoots through his veins.

A woman dashes from the next car and pushes past him, ducking into his car.

He looks back the way she came and through the glass door he can see more people running and screaming. 

Someone else pushes past him and John stares for a moment longer, contemplating, then turns and runs. He has to find Angelica and get to Peggy. 

For now he does his best to push down the voice that says that they'd be better off without him.

**6:38 AM**

Alexander looks up as he hears a scream. The door slams open and a woman sprints through their car and keeps going. 

Damn, he was just getting into his paper.

The people around him shift, looking at one another.

He turns the volume up on his music. 

Someone behind him stands, clutching his phone in his hands and trembling.

Alex saves his document and slowly closes his laptop.

He turns to survey the car.

The air is taught, drawn tight and ready to snap. No one moves.

Another scream echoes to them and the door slams, several more people dashing through.

The cute man with freckles that had been sitting across from him skids into the car. He's wearing some kind of sports armor and clutching his phone with a white knuckled grip. Some kind of long metal pole is slung across his back and his head is fuzzy with curly hair that's come loose from his ponytail.

"Run!!!"

No one moves and Alexander feels his muscles tense.

"Did you not hear me you assholes!!!? RUN!!"

Something crashes into the door behind the curly haired man and he spins, pushing his shoulder up against it.

Alexander’s eyes slowly drift to the tinted wall he's pressed against.

There are corpses slamming into the cloudy glass—men and women with rolled back eyes and hunks of bloody flesh missing. Crimson smears and spatters across the wall as they shove.

Alexander hasn't seen that many corpses since–since—

He can feel himself trembling, his breath drawing short and fast. It's alright it's alright. He knows what to do he knows what to do.

In,

_Un deux trois quatre cinq six sept huit neuf dix,_

Out.

_Un deux trois quatre cinq six sept huit neuf dix,_

In.

The curly haired man grits his teeth as he attempts to keep the door closed. His tennis shoes slip below his braced legs and he shifts his grip. He just needs to get the door closed all the way.

People are streaming out of the car, but some have gone to help him. 

He lets go for a minute and the sound of garbled cries grows louder, bloody hands reaching through the gap. He throws his broad back into the door.

The man's warm, coppery green eyes are blown wide with panic and adrenaline. His freckles stand out against his pale skin.

The people are running. The people are running and Alexander is frozen as the plague rises on him as the hurricane rises on him as the—

"Is there an Angelica Schuyler in here!!?"

Alex doesn't know who the curly haired man thinks is listening, but a moment later a dark skinned woman pushes from the running crowd. 

She's wearing high heels, but she easily sprints beside him, tearing off her suit jacket and wrapping it around her arm before slamming her shoulder into the door beside him.

"Why do you want her?!"

The door thunders and for a moment the small group that has stayed let it open. They redouble their efforts and a long, spider webbing crack appears in the glass.

They're all going to die. 

Alexander runs. He's got to make sure he gets out of this. He's got to he's got to.

Un deux trois quatre cinq six sept huit neuf—

He slides out of the car and sprints past the bathrooms, tugging on the handle of the door to the next one.

It won't budge. 

Alexander's breath catches and his chest feels tight and sick. All he can hear is the sound of his heartbeat. No no no.

He drops his briefcase and brings both hands to pull frantically at the door handle, then raises his forearms to bang on the glass.

"Let me in!! Let me in!!"

There's a crash behind him and Alexander looks desperately over his shoulder. The hair on the nape of his neck and his arms stands on end, his palms clammy.

"Let me in!!"

He stumbles into the car as the door slides open, tripping over frantically piled luggage. 

He falls over himself to grab his brief case—all of his work is in there, all of his life—before he scoots back and the door slams.

He sits on the ground and stares at the door in shock, breathing heavily. Hasn't the world done enough?

His grip is white knuckled on his briefcase and all at once he’s sick. He left those people to die. He left them. He left them and he could've helped and maybe they'd still be alive. 

Everyone around him dies. 

He chokes back a breath. He’s done it again it's happening again everyone will die everything will be gone everything everything

Alexander's breath is shallow.

_Un deux trois quatre cinq six sept—_

There's a loud banging on the door and it rattles in its frame.

"Let us in!!! Let us in!!! Open the door!!!"

The people around him exchange terrified glances. They all heard the glass crash, the corpses can't be that far behind. There’s an uneven thump in his chest. No one is going to open it.

"Open the door!!!"

Alexander pushes himself up and sprints for the handle before the others can stop him, yanking it wide.

The curly haired man and dark skinned woman dart into the room just as bloody hands are about the grab them. There is no sign of the other three.

He slams the door closed and gulps silently. Gasping and expelling his breath in ragged puffs of air.

There's blood across the two of them and the woman is holding the man's lacrosse stick in a tight knuckled grip.

There's a dent and a splash of blood on the side of it.

The man is cradling his hand to himself and there's a large spattering of blood over his shoulder and the side of his neck.

They'd fought their way out, but Alex can’t. He can’t do anything like that. He can’t give everything up. He needs to make something of himself—needs to.

They stand where they stopped, breathing heavily.

The rest of the people in the car give them a wide berth, staring at them with wide eyes.

Alexander leans against the door, his breath slowing and his eyes flicking across the faces of the people. He can tell that they're about to boil over. He's seen it before. It's never pretty. 

A man's shaky voice breaks the silence.

“What-what if they're infected?"

A woman speaks up. "It's not safe!"

Someone else. "Nowhere's safe lady!!"

“Well, certainly not with them!"

The shouting grows louder and louder and Alexander sees the curly haired man flinch as someone gestures sharply towards him.

His own breath begins to pick up.

"Enough!!!"

A tall man with an afro of curly hair grins as the shouting cuts off. Alexander would recognize Thomas Jefferson from a mile away, even if he's never met the man in person. 

His eyebrows draw and his lip curls up in contempt. The nerve of this man.

"My new friend here has something intelligent y'all might like to hear." 

Madison steps from where he's standing beside the taller man. Oh.

Alex is glad to see him alive. Since when is he friends with Jefferson?

"Keep them under watch, they're obviously useful to us and they did just save all our lives."

Madison gives the crowd a significant look and sweeps his gaze around the room. No one will meet his eyes and Alexander smirks even though it pains him. He doesn't know what to do with the knowledge that these two asshole southerners probably just saved his life.

They decide that the curly haired man and black woman have to stay at the close end of the room. Alex gets up to follow the others to the far side, but someone catches his shoulder and gestures for him to stay.

He can't say he's too upset. Disregarding that they're closer to the zombie horde, these two are obviously better equipped and more competent. Especially more competent than fucking Jefferson, who squarely has the majority under his thumb.

He collapses beside the barricade of luggage and clutches his brief case to his chest. 

Holy shit it's the apocalypse.

No, no, the government will handle it. He's in America now, they've got protocol for this sort of thing. They've just got to get somewhere safe and wait. The military will save them.

The curly haired man sits down beside him and the woman quickly follows suit.

She tears a piece of fabric from the edge of her blouse and gestures for the man's hand.

He gives it to her and let's out a strangled yelp as she roughly wraps it.

Alexander snickers, the adrenaline is draining out of his system and he’s almost giddy with poisoned relief. How does he always manage to turn out alive? He wouldn't be surprised if he's the only goddamn person on the whole planet that survives this thing.

"Glad someone's getting some joy from all this,” the woman says sarcastically, tying a knot in the fabric, then pushing herself to her feet and digging through the pile of luggage.

"I'm Angelica Schuyler."

The curly haired man tiredly raises his freckled, uninjured hand. He's still hot with blood spattered over his cheek. Maybe that's the adrenaline talking.

"John Laurens."

"I'm Alexander Hamilton."

The woman stands, a bag in her hands.

"Glad we've got that cleared up, now, we should find what's useful and put it all into three backpacks."

Alexander raises his eyebrows. "How long do you think this is going to last? What about the CDC?"

John looks towards her, still holding his phone. "And the military?"

Angelica sighs, rubbing a hand over her face. "I just want to be prepared, even if it's only a couple of days, we'll need to be if we want to survive."

He exchanges a glance with John and they rise to quietly begin sorting through their own belongings and the contents of the rest of the bags. 

No one stops them. Alexander's not surprised.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally, I wrote this on my phone when I didn't have access to the other things I was working on, so there's no real plan. If people like it, I'll iron it out a bit more and keep using it as a time filler. After I get out the two remaining written chapters, I'll post whenever I have enough to publish a new chapter


End file.
